The Man They Couldn't Arrest

Dain rested for a few minutes from the pressing grip of his headphones, and then plugged in on a combination he knew by heart. He had got the pitch in on a combination he knew by heart. He had got the pitch of his instrument so perfectly attuned to that particular room that he got a first-class result without further experiment. In a moment there were voices in his headphones-three of them, talking rapidly. He recognized them all. They were Delbury, Shaughnessy, and the Chief.

Dain pulled a notebook over and took a verbatim note of all that he required.

"I'm asking for a warrant right now, chief." The voice was Delbury's vibrant with conviction.

"You're satisfied about Dain?"

"Absolutely. I wasn't at first, but I am now. I'm certain that as soon as we've arrested Dain we shall begin to get a start on the solution to the mystery of the Ghost. It's all wrapped up in this plain as a pikestaff, yet as obscure as a foggy night in a coal-cellar. I'm asking for the warrant and for a scientific investigator to be sent out to Hendon."

"Why-anything too deep for you out there?"

"Better go out and have a look for yourself, Chief. The whole place is like a chamber of horrors-a regular rabbit-warren of mystery. It's a marvel that Lyall ever got into the place at all without killing himself in about ten different places. I found some capsules in Lyall's pocket. I sent them back for chemical analysis, and I think you'll find they are made of some effective lethal gas or some such composition. And there was this letter-card, too."

Delbury took it from his wallet and handed it to the Chief.

"You see, it's identical with those we have received. And written to Lyall himself by the Ghost!"

"Well?" asked the Chief during an interval in which Delbury sat back breathing deeply in righteous indignation.

"Well, I've got an idea about Dain," said the detective shortly.

"You think he's the Ghost?"

"I think he's the king crook we've been scouring London for ever since nineteen ten. He's the leader of all the leaders; the boss criminal of London. And I want that warrant. Do I get it?"

"You do," said the Chief, and pressed a bell buŧŧon. "You can have it right now."

Dain heard an order given to the clerk to make out the warrant. And he smiled sourly at his own thoughts. There was a quaint touch of ironical humour in the idea of a man listening to a warrant being made out for his own arrest on the gravest charge that can be levelled against a man under British law. He felt that in that last ten minutes the devil had placed him between two fires with remarkable neatness.

Then, in response to an inquiry from the Chief, Delbury rattled off a string of arrangements he was making for Dain's apprehension.

Valmon Dain sat back and mopped his forehead.

"Phew!" he muttered. "Things are going to get a little warmer, I think." He heard Delbury telling the Chief that he was going straight to Hendon to complete his inquiries there, and then he pulled off his headphones with a sigh of relief.

"Yes, things certainly are going to be a trifle dizzy for the next few days," he admitted. "The Press for one, won't let it drop for at least a week. They will hammer it till they've wrung every drop of sensation out of it."

He sat on through the long drag of the afternoon reading the various editions as they appeared, watching the odds pile up to Mammoth heights against him.

He read the six-thirty editions over a cup of tea; and he smiled a frosty smile to himself. .

"Very Interesting-very interesting, indeed!" he muttered to himself. "Every sleuth in Scotland Yard on the one side; all the power of the Press on the other; and Count Lazard honouring me with a call as soon as darkness has fallen. It certainly looks as though I am booked for a hectic evening."

The Count Lazard had read the papers, edition by edition, as they appeared on the street. He had read every line with exacting care, and by the time he called for his hat and coat after dinner he had got a complete grip of every aspect of the case.

He had dined well and wined well, without the slightest tremor or apprehension. His long white fingers, immaculately manicured, had searched over the wine list without even the hint of a twitch.

He had finished his cigar, too, with delectable enjoyment, and then, quite as a sudden notion, had informed the butler that he would go out for a little while.

He strolled out into St. James's Square and lit a cigarette.

"The car, sir?" asked his butler.

"No-a taxi," murmured Lazard.

The butler beckoned to the rank, and a taxi drove up.

"Denbigh House, Kingsway," said Lazard, as he climbed in.

As the car slid across Trafalgar Square he glanced at a street clock. The hands were just drawing up from the half-hour towards ten o'clock; the night was bright and starlit, with a fresh wind blowing up from the river.